Cast Some Light
by rhododendron
Summary: AU, complete. Set at the beginning of S4. If evolution is a race, Sam and Dean are going to beat the rest of the universe by a mile.
1. Part One

**Title: **Cast Some Light

**Rating: **M for some language & graphic-ish scenes.

**Disclaimer: **Supernatural does not belong to me, and no copyright infringement is intended.

.

_Don't you lie, don't lie to me__  
__That you're not afraid, my love.__  
__I know you well enough to know you can't be alone.__  
_- Sea Wolf, "The Cold, the Dark, & the Silence"

.

When he gets back to the motel, Sam's there, sitting on the bed, head in his hands. His brow is furrowed, eyes focused on a spot on the floor. He looks up when Dean enters, and for a second his eyes seem brighter than usual, but then it's gone and it's just plain Sam. There's a smear of blood across one cheek, but Dean doesn't say anything.

His shoulder hurts like hell. When he tells Sam as much, the other sends him a long, measuring stare.

Bad choice of words.

He gives Sam an apologetic shrug and walks to the duffel on the bed, tossing in the few clothes and weapon's he's unpacked and zipping it closed. The bedspread is a lurid orange with a pattern of purple windmills on it; with any luck, this is the last time they'll have to look at such eye-watering colors for a while. They're bunking down with Bobby for a few weeks, to figure out what's what.

In the Impala, the white iPod jack lies tangled between them like a dead snake. He doesn't put the radio on and he doesn't know why, if it's because he's terrified it will scan to static or if he's afraid to break the silence. The sky is rapidly becoming overcast; it's the darker, bruised color that comes before storms, and he puts more pressure on the gas. Sam is restless beside him, but the only thing that betrays it is his eyes, flickering and focusing on every single person they pass. Dean tries to remember what it's like to have those eyes trained on him, but instead sees only his own, bloodshot and widened, and grips the steering wheel until the nausea passes and he can breathe again.

When they get to Bobby's, he claims exhaustion, and collapses on the couch, boots still on and beer cans digging into his back. He pretends to be asleep when Bobby drapes an afghan over his body, when the murmur of conversation drifts into the other room, accompanied by the clinking of glass on glass.

_It hasn't been easy._

When he does sleep, it's to the sound of rain lashing against the windows, and Sam's voice in the kitchen. He dreams of wings and fire and eyes and blood, of a burning bush and a slaughtered lamb, of a white snake in darkness and a terrible, crushing pressure that fills his head until he can feel his temples throbbing against the pillow and realizes that he's awake. His shoulder is throbbing dully, and feels hot under his shirt. Come to it, his whole body feels hot- too hot. He throws off the afghan, panic overtaking him, and scratches at his collar, trying to pull the shirt off, too. Sam's at his side in an instant, concerned and ineffectual, his hand unbearably warm against Dean's wrists. He falls back, scrabbling at the t-shirt until he's finally able to pull it over his head, but it's still too hot and he feels like he's on fire, and all he can hear is Sam's voice being drowned out by a shrieking wind.


	2. Part Two

**Title: **Cast Some Light

**Rating: **M for some language & graphic-ish scenes.

**Disclaimer: **Supernatural does not belong to me, and no copyright infringement is intended.

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Sam shouts for Bobby when Dean goes limp. His hand is on his brother's face in an instant, but he pulls it back, gasping in pain, when he feels it blister. There's heat pouring off Dean's body in waves, like an open oven, like a furnace or a bonfire. He's still breathing somehow, bare chest heaving and Sahara-hot breath parting his lips. Sam moves before he knows what he's doing, wraps Dean in the discarded blanket and throws him over his shoulder, charging up the stairs to the bathroom, feeling the heat on his body even through the afghan. He drops him heavily in the bathtub, wrenches the dial around until frigid water slams out of the faucet. It bubbles when it hits Dean's skin.

Bobby's beside him now, shaking the contents of a flask into the water, but the tub is steaming already so there's no way of telling if the holy water has any effect. He leaves and returns with a plastic bag full of ice, dumps it into the water, and sits down beside Sam to wait.

.

.

Dean wakes up in a bathtub. He considers the odds of a drunken revel the night before, but even if the pounding headache fits, there's no way he should be this cold. Unless the tub is filled with beer. Or popsicles? Mm, popsicles. Do they make beer popsicles? Those would _kick ass_. His brain finally boots into gear when he realizes that he recognizes the peeling wallpaper and dirty wall sconces in the bathroom. Bobby and Sam are asleep near him, sitting against the wall between the toilet and the sink. They've slipped sideways, so Sam's head rests against the doorframe and Bobby's against the sink. There's a line of salt drawn around the rim of the tub; he pokes at it with a finger, rolling his eyes. "I'm not possessed, Bobby," he says, or tries to. The words won't come out properly; he tries again and manages better, though his voice is hoarse and low enough that Bobby slumbers on. His body aches fiercely and he's shivering; it's not until he takes stock of himself that he realizes how frozen he feels.

What the _fuck_.

Dean pushes himself out of the water, grimacing at the feel of soaked denim against his skin. For a moment, the room seems to flicker and he shuts his eyes against the sudden flare of white that invades his vision. The lightbulbs in the room have burned out long ago, and the house is dark as he pads wetly down the stairs, grabbing a towel on the way and thanking whatever twisted God exists that his wallet was in his duffel instead of his pocket. He dries himself off and pulls sweatpants and a shirt on, trying to remember what happened. Heat. Sam's voice (_Dean Dean Dean god Dean come on Dean talk to me Dean_). He looks at the clock; it's almost a full twelve hours since they've arrived. He goes back up the stairs, jeans and towel in a sodden ball, and nudges Sam with his bare foot. The other jerks awake, and for a moment the strange light is back in his eyes.

"What haven't you told me?" Dean wants to ask. Instead, he says "Hey."

"Hey. What the hell happened?" Sam's lanky form hauls itself to its feet.

"Was going to ask you the same thing."

"How do you feel?" He stretches, cracks his back, looking annoyingly well-rested.

"Cold." Dean scowls. If he had to spend ten hours in the freaking Baltic Sea, at least Sam could show a _little _discomfort, instead of looking like he'd slept in one of those fancy hotels with the mini-bar and fondue fountain.

"No shit, Sherlock, you've been passed out in an ice bath for the last eight hours." Dean doesn't bother to correct him.

"You asked, Florence Nightengale." Glare. "I'm fine," he backtracks, trying to avoid an argument (_it's a role he's gotten used to_). "Just woke up feeling like I'd been nuked." The lie comes easily- he doesn't need to describe the dream, there's no way it has anything to do with his body's spontaneous conversion into a space heater- but Sam sees through it anyway. Luckily, Bobby's stirring in the corner. Sam gives him a stare that says this is far from over, but hell if Dean's not used to that look by now. He's also intimately familiar with Sam's pleading look, his pissed-off look, _and _his surly look, and doesn't particularly like any of them. He fights the urge to stick out his tongue when Bobby blearily clambers to his feet.

It's not until the next morning that he feels the prickling above his shoulder blades.


	3. Part Three

**Title: **Cast Some Light

**Rating: **M for some language & graphic-ish scenes.

**Disclaimer: **Supernatural does not belong to me, and no copyright infringement is intended.

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Well, it wasn't really a prickling. It was more of a sharp, stabbing pain at first, enough to make Dean roll his shoulders irritably, but not bad enough to tell Sam or Bobby about. Sam might bitch about that; he always said that nothing was ever bad enough to tell him about, because Dean generally passed out first. He was probably right. Whatever. Dean would be damned before he let his little brother fuss over him like he was some sickly child. Thus, the Dean Winchester definition of "I'm fine, Sam" was born. It was, predictably, overused.

"I'm fine, Sam," Dean says. "Jesus. Give it a rest, killer. I know you're dying to strip me down and give me a sponge bath, lay your hand on my forehead and soothe my fevered brow and all that shit, but please, control your urges."

Beside him, Sam snorts. They're in the Impala, cruising down one of the back roads, looking for the Magical Pixie Well or whatever the hell Bobby said while Dean was discreetly trying to figure out a way to sit that didn't hurt his shoulders. Sam would remember it, anyway. It was practically his job.

As it is, he's shifting restlessly against the usually comfortable leather seat, hands tight on the wheel. It's not just his shoulders; he's feeling uncomfortably hot again, despite the cold October weather. He's lowered the windows and Sam's shivering a little and looking at him weirdly, which is just fine in Dean's book because it means he hasn't figured out what's going on yet. His vision is hazy, shuddering between unusually clear and completely nonexistent. This is making driving slightly difficult, but he doesn't say anything, just focuses harder on biting back the nausea that's rising in his throat, until he nearly totals the car when a deer bolts out in front of it. Sam lets out an embarrassingly girly scream and Dean would usually tease him for it, only right now he's a little busy throwing the door open and falling out of the car, control gone, clawing his way towards the brush along the side of the road and vomiting up his breakfast. _Christ_. His skin feels tight across his bones and his vision is flickering.

Sam is next to him _he always is, always_ but he can't feel his limbs and he can barely breathe from the pain in his shoulders. He arches his back, gasping for air, hands scrabbling at the ground for purchase. He feels like he's floating upwards. Collapse to the ground. Black. Scratch, scratch, scream. He can see every single blade of grass, millimeters away from his eye, totally in focus. Ripping skin, warm blood gushing down his back. Warm blood gushing down his throat- he doesn't know if he's bitten through his tongue, doesn't feel anything except the pain above his shoulder blades and the dry grass crushed under his fingertips. Blood bubbles past his lips when he tries to scream.

And then it's over.

He's lying panting on the ground, face pressed into the dirt. He spits out the blood in his mouth and feels the cut in his lip sting. Thoughts worm their way into his head, and as usual, Sam is leading the parade. _Sammy_. He tries to pick himself up, but there's a warm, wet weight on his back. "Sam?" he calls instead, relieved that his voice seems to be fine. Sam's face swings into view as his brother kneels next to him, pale, wide-eyed, and splattered in blood.

"Shit, Sammy. Yours?"

"No, yours, Dean." Sam's looking at him like he's afraid to, like there's something horribly, horribly wrong.

"What's on my back, Sam?" Silence. "Sam. What the hell is it?"

"Lie still, man. Let me take a look." It's not much of an effort to keep still; his back still burns like a fucker, and he can feel the handprint joining in too _it's a regular Hallelujah chorus_, but he has no energy, and isn't sure he could stand up even if whatever the hell is on him wasn't there. Sam moves to the Impala's trunk, grabbing a pair of scissors, a rag, and water, and cuts Dean's shirt away. He starts to wash down the skin until he feels Dean shaking with laughter below him.

"Looks like I'm gonna get that sponge bath after all," he says by way of explanation, but gritting his teeth to keep from crying when Sam cleans his shoulders takes most of the humor out.

"Can you stand?"

"Maybe. What the fuck is on me?" Silence. "Sam, I swear to God-" he can't come up with any threat he'd be able to carry out in this condition, so he shuts up. _Well, fuck that._ Dean feels the weight shift on his back- he can feel it to a strange extent, like it's attached to him or something- and gingerly manages to get his knees under him. It's absurdly easy from there, just a matter of standing differently. He tries to reach back to feel whatever it is, but the motion startles a gasp of pain out of him and he stops, dropping his hand back down.

Sam helps him to the car and really, he was taking the whole thing so well until he finally gets a look at himself in the side mirror and sees the enormous pair of black wings spread behind his shoulders.


	4. Part Four

**Title: **Cast Some Light

**Rating: **M for some language & graphic-ish scenes.

**Disclaimer: **Supernatural does not belong to me, and no copyright infringement is intended.

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_Crosses all over, heavy on your shoulders  
The sirens inside you waiting to step forward  
Disturbing silence darkens you sight  
We'll cast some light and you'll be alright  
We'll cast some light and you'll be alright, for now_

- Zero Seven, "Crosses"

_.  
_

There's the inevitable meeting with Castiel, of course. It has to wait for three weeks though, while Dean's skin heals; there are two jagged, raw rips trailing down to the small of his back (_wet, bloody feathers and bone bursting out of his skin_), and it's a while, even with Bobby's stitches (_groaning, biting hard on Sam's belt as the needle threads through his body_), before he can sit up and twist enough to feel the smooth feathers. He tells Sam the full story, doesn't really have a choice, because two weeks of near-bed confinement became something akin to an interrogation room in Guantanamo. At the end of it, Sam frowns, leaves the room, and returns with a large stack of books. Dean already knows they won't help.

.

Eighteen days later, Dean tries to walk across the room without help and stumbles, falls hard. Lands on his back and blacks out, hearing someone screaming, not knowing it's himself. A week after that, he tries again, and manages it. His balance is off, but he can adjust, and does. His body feels lighter, more centered, faster, despite the added weight.

.

Three days after that, he makes it out to the junkyard and sees Castiel sitting in the bed of an '84 Ford pickup. He gingerly sits next to him.  
"Get rid of them."  
"They're a gift."  
"I don't fucking want them."  
"Beggars can't be choosers, Dean."  
"I don't beg."  
"You asked me why God doesn't help people. You asked, and he answered. You get the answer to the question you asked; you can't pick how you want it to end."  
"Your God just turned me into a freaking angel of the lord." Castiel laughs.  
"Oh, you're not an angel. Just... a little closer to Heaven than you were before." _Hah._  
"I. Don't. Want. Them."  
"Too bad." The angel's voice is deeper, harder, older. Archaic. "They are yours now. Go help people, Dean." There's enough finality in that voice to kill a horse, and it stops Dean in his tracks, stops him from saying that if he's not already helped people, then what the fuck has he been doing since he was four? Instead, he takes a breath and asks:  
"... so can I fly?"  
He can.

.

The wings can be hidden, if he concentrates, and Sam claims that besides a slight flickering in the air, there's no sign of them until he concentrates again and they slam back into existence. It's not as bad as it could be.

The light is back in Sam's eyes more often, and sometimes, that extra sense he's associated with the wings makes his muscles tense when he looks at him. It's not until a month later, when they're stopped at a gas station and Sam has fallen into conversation with a pretty, dark-haired girl, that he realizes why.  
Below her skin, his eyes find a roiling mass of black clouds.

He lets it go, because, as Castiel said, he's not an angel, and if it takes light and dark to make things right, well, they're not going to give up now.


	5. Coda

**Title: **Cast Some Light

**Rating: **M for some language and graphic-ish scenes.

**Disclaimer: **Supernatural does not belong to me, and no copyright infringement is intended.

**Author's Note:** this is it, for now. I don't see myself writing any more codas or plot into this, unless something magical happens. Enjoy.

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He could never tell Sam, of course, never describe the feeling that had made him climb, hand over hand, up the ladder-like struts of the crane. He got far, high, and eased his body between two of the bars, and let go. Wind had screamed as it passed his ears, rustled as it slammed past his wings. Insidious, the feeling, helpless when he realized that he was falling and falling hard, and that the wings wouldn't fix a fucked-up kid from Kansas with skeletons in his closet and guns in his car.

He could never tell Sam how he landed in a heap on the packed ground, felt the air surge out of his lungs and out of his throat, felt every single bruise as it rose to the top of his skin.

He could never tell Sam that he'd tried again, felt the thrill of failure and the burn of despair in his stomach, how the air sucked every piece of hope from his skin and left heaven in its place, impossibly bright and terribly vacant. He had hollow bones and he had a younger brother and a '67 Chevy Impala and a scar on his shoulder and a tattoo on his chest and he had nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing,nothing,nothingnothingnothing.

And then he flew.

He could never tell Sam about his wings, how they'd exploded behind him, though there was no tell-tale wrench in his muscles as his descent stopped abruptly. It felt like he'd been doing this all his life, like it was all he'd ever done, all he'd ever known, all he'd ever felt. and when he drifted to the ground, his feet touched down lightly for an instant.

He could never tell Sam that he'd pitched forward, vomiting onto the ground in front of him, stomach convulsing and muscles seizing, fingers clawing in the dirt and mouth gasping for air like he'd been suffocated. He'd waited until he could stand, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and tried again. This time was easier; it took him less than a second to rise a few feet from the ground, the papery tips of the feathers battering gently against his hips. He dropped slowly and lurched forward again, dry heaves making his entire body shudder.

He could never tell Sam how horribly perfect it felt.


End file.
